There was nothing but void—an ink-thick stillness, as if the universe had taken a breath and forgotten how to exhale. No sound. No stars. Just a silence that pressed in like velvet wrapped around bone. Out of the dark, a figure emerged, his silhouette cut sharp against the nothingness. He wore a sleek, modernized suit—smooth black fabric etched with barely visible circuitry that flickered dimly like dying constellations. A top hat sat low on his head, shadows swallowing his eyes. What little skin showed beneath the collar and cuffs was grey—leprous, almost liquefied, like time had tried to rot him and failed halfway. The man walked with slow, deliberate steps, each echo folding in on itself. In front of him stood a timepiece. No, not a watch. A monolith—round, towering, gilded in gold and pulsating with a divine radiance. Its massive face ticked slowly, each motion of the hands feeling like the swing of a blade over a neck.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
The sound was too real, like it was inside the bones of the void itself. The man raised his hand toward the timepiece, fingers crooked like a marionette's, trembling not with fear but something older—reverence, perhaps. The moment his hand brushed the glass, the ticking stopped. A light surged outward in ripples, like time itself blinked. And something changed.
A smile curled on the man's lips, only the lower half of his face visible beneath the brim. It was not the grin of joy or kindness. It was older than emotion, more akin to remembering the taste of blood after a long winter. Then came the sound—laughter, innocent and full of breath. Children. Dozens, maybe hundreds, sprinted out from the void, barefoot and wild-eyed, their giggles like bells in a mausoleum. They ran toward the timepiece, leaping into its shimmering light, vanishing one after another without a trace.
One child hesitated.
The man in the top hat bent down, outstretching a gloved hand. The child, trembling but curious, reached forward. Their fingers met. The man didn't speak, but something passed between them—an understanding. He led the child to the timepiece, hand-in-hand, and together they stepped into its golden maw.
Then the man turned back.
He faced the timepiece once more, and with his hand, curled his fingers into a crushing grip, as if squeezing the sun. A single tear slid down his cheek—dark and glistening like oil. The glass cracked. Then shattered.
The explosion was not sound but sensation. A scream that shook the spine of existence, like the cosmos itself recoiling from its own reflection. Shards of time flew in all directions, slicing through the fabric of whatever plane this was. Then—
Silence.
A blank, vast nothingness.
Until—
Eyes snapped open.
19 year old Nero gasped, the breath tearing itself from his lungs like a soul escaping purgatory. His vision blurred, light bleeding into his skull as he sat up too fast. His chest rose and fell like a piston gone mad. Sweat clung to his back, though the air was cold. Beneath him was rubble—ancient, broken, rough stone slick with moss.
He was dressed in red knight-like armor that was jagged and still covered in blood. His fingers scraped against the ground as he braced himself, heart hammering.
'Where am I…?'
The sky above was a pale, dead grey—endless and empty, like the color had been drained from the world. Towering stone monoliths loomed around him in various states of ruin—split open like bones, riddled with strange runes that bled rust instead of dust. A wind moved, but it made no sound. The silence was suffocating.
He stood slowly. His legs shook. Every instinct screamed to run, but to where?
"What the hell…" he muttered, voice hoarse and barely audible. He turned in place, scanning the expanse. And then he saw them.
People. Thousands.
Men and women, old and young, but no children, all dressed like him in rough, utilitarian garb. Some staggered to their feet. Others stood still, eyes wide with disbelief. Cries began to rise. Screams. Panic. People calling out names. People dropping to their knees.
Nero stumbled backward, his breath quickening, chest aching.
"This… this isn't real. This isn't real…"
He pinched himself—hard. Then again. Then until his nails broke skin and warm blood welled under his thumb.
'This isn't a dream…I was on a battlefield, could this be illusion magic? Dream magic or something?'
Still here. Still surrounded by the strange, crumbling world. Still beneath that vast, grey sky.
And above it all—something watching. He could feel it. Not with his eyes. With his blood.
'Did I get sent here?! Did I finally lose…? Was it magic? I could've sworn…it had to have been! What about my commander? Are they here too? I don't recognize any of these people..'
Nero wandered. His steps were uneven, lightheadedness giving the world a tilt, as if it all rested on a knife-edge. The grey sky loomed above like a lid sealed tight over a boiling pot. His mouth was dry, heart pounding hard enough that he could feel it in his throat, like it might burst loose and run ahead of him. His eyes darted left, right—taking it all in, taking in too much.
'It's cold here…but not overbearing. Feels like just the right temperature…'
The beings around him weren't just human. They weren't even all alive in the way he knew it. They were just like him.
To his left passed something shaped like a man but covered in mirror-like plates, its body angular and clicking with the sound of gears shifting beneath skin. Its eyes were thin lines of gold, and electricity danced beneath its surface. It moved with silent poise, scanning the area like a predator. Just behind it walked a warrior with tattoos glowing molten blue across pitch-black flesh, her arms lit with conjured flame that crackled with each clenched fist.
Others floated—levitating monks with no mouths, their skin rippling like wet cloth as if they were only barely contained within their own flesh. One being was made of sand and strings, suspended in a net of wind that hummed like a beautiful song.
Near them stood a towering brute wrapped in metal bands, each inscribed with a different language, and he held a hammer that pulsed with heartbeats. Nero passed a group of knights in rusted cloaks, their helmets twisted into permanent snarls, and yet they spoke calmly in what sounded like poetry.
He stumbled, breath catching. A metallic hand brushed his shoulder and he flinched back—turning to find an elderly man whose eyes had been replaced with tiny flickering lanterns. "Sorry," the man said, his voice rattling like bones in a drawer, "I thought you were my son. He died last century. I think."
Nero kept walking. He didn't trust his legs, but standing still felt worse.
'Other humans are here too, and also some weird looking creatures and beasts…I'm pretty sure they know as much as I do, no point in trying to get some answers out of them. They all look even more confused than me..'
There were arguments breaking out. Small clusters of warriors shouting at each other in languages both ancient and strange, voices overlapping like crashing waves. He walked past two human-looking figures, both armored, who were nose-to-nose.
"You brought this on us!" one woman shouted, red dreadlocks crackling with sparks. "You tampered with the magic stone!"
"I was trying to save us! We were dying anyway!" the man barked back, raising a curved sword that hissed with dark steam. "You'd rather rot on that battlefield like the others?"
"Whatever we did can't be related to this! This is something entirely surreal…"
"I agree."
Nearby, a hunched beast—six-limbed, skin like cracked obsidian—crouched beside a crying child-like creature with bird wings, though it wasn't a child. It whispered lullabies Nero didn't recognize. Past them, a pair of warriors in feudal armor argued over territory that no longer existed. One slammed his fist into a stone, shattering it, howling the name of a lost homeland: "Sennakii!"
He saw others coping in strange ways. A girl in glowing robes was painting a mural on a slab of broken wall with her own blood, recreating a vivid garden from memory.
A creature with three heads was sitting cross-legged, slapping itself, muttering, "Wake up. Wake up. Wake up." Nearby, a man in fine noble garb was trying to barter with the void, throwing coins into a bottomless pit.
And then—he walked past a couple. A woman straddled a man, both of them naked on the ground, their eyes wide and mouths parted in a screamless confusion. They hadn't moved since being taken, frozen mid-act. The moment they saw Nero, the woman yelped and scrambled off him, both turning to cover themselves in shame.
Nero looked away, fast, throat tight.
'They were in the middle of doing the nasty. Yeah, we all got swooped up in the middle of something. No way we've got taken out…'
Everyone here was somebody. Warriors. Mages. Beasts. Champions from realms unknown. All of them powerful—he could feel it. The way they held their weapons, the way magic hummed in their breath. Even the quiet ones, the ones who sat still, emanated danger. Not one person here looked weak.
Then—her voice.
It came not from the sky, but from everything. Like the bones of the world had grown a mouth.
"You all have been brought to Purgatory, the realm between life and death," a woman's voice echoed—soft, lilting, but carrying divine weight, "for one purpose only. The gods of our universe have escaped their fate of death… and I have chosen you all to have the chance to take them down."
A wave of noise erupted.
"What the hell is this?!"
"You brought me here without consent?!"
"This is bullshit! I had a life! I had a war to finish!" Nero yelled.
"Where's my brother?! Where is he?!"
"I was in my forge! I just lit the damn furnace—!"
"I want to go home! Take me back!"
"WHO ARE YOU?!"
The goddess didn't answer their chaos. She continued:
"I will allow you to return to your realm… if you do this for me. If not, you will die. I only require five. The rest will perish. You must battle each other. Only the final five will be transferred to the world where the escaped gods, my children, now reign—Kalhalla."
The anger turned into outrage.
"You're using us!"
"Only five?! That's mass slaughter!"
"You call this justice?!"
More shouting. More violence in voices. A snake-bodied woman raised her trident into the sky and screamed curses in a language older than dust. A group of spellcasters began glowing, whispering protection rites.
"You don't have a choice," the goddess said, and now her voice turned cold. "That is the only way you may return. Or you will remain here forever. Forgotten. Unaging. Unliving. Choose."
Her voice vanished.
Silence. Deafening silence.
Nero gritted his teeth, feeling the pressure and anxiety rising like flames around him.
'Got dragged here by a goddess…?!'
Nero exclaimed, "This is insane! Show yourself and I'll kill you instead! Why are you making us do this? Do it yourself!"
For a moment, no one spoke. Many simply dropped to their knees. A seven-armed creature began wailing, fingers clutching its ears. A modern soldier with a rifle crossed himself in three directions and began muttering prayers.
Someone began humming an old lullaby. Another person carved something into the dirt—names, maybe. Nero stood there, heart still racing.
He tried. "Wait—hey!" he called into the grey. "You didn't answer! What the fuck are you talking about?! What gods?! Who the hell are—?!"
Silence.
No voice replied. Only breathing. Wind. A few more cries. Someone vomiting. Someone begging. Someone screaming for their mother in a language he didn't know.
People began to talk in low murmurs. One by one, they broke. A man with blue flame tattoos sat on a rock and murmured, "My son's waiting. He turns seven today. I was bringing him a dragon-flyer—he wanted one so bad…"
A woman with silver hair and a floating orb hovering behind her whispered, "My garden… it was all I had left. I promised my husband I'd keep it alive…"
Others joined in.
"I had a crew. We were the last line of defense."
"My sister's still in the coma… she needs me…"
"I was at the wedding. It was the happiest day…"
They cried. They shouted. They mourned.
And Nero… he stood alone.
—He had no one.
No family. No wife, No dumb pet cat waiting by the door. No childhood friend who wrote letters. Nothing. Not anymore.
Then—he heard it.
A tearing roar.
A centaur emerged from the crowd. His equine lower body was massive, black with glistening skin like obsidian stone. His human torso was thick with muscle, twisted with scars that glowed faintly with cursed runes. His hair was tied back in cords of metal. From his hand formed a lance—black and veined, oozing a dark, smoky magic.
He raised the lance high—and swung.
The arc was devastating. A whoosh of wind. A crack like mountains splitting. Bodies ripped apart in an instant, whole warriors exploded into viscera. Blood painted the stone in wide strokes. Screams echoed as limbs and torsos rained like meat scattered from a butcher's table. Nero was flung back by the shockwave, crashing into broken rock, gasping as the wind was punched from his lungs.
The centaur—Gormund—stood in the carnage.
"I was going home," he said, voice low, choked with fury, "to give my daughter a flower she's never seen before. From the edge of the high mountains in my homeland. She's been waiting all spring…" His eyes burned. "I'll get back to her. I don't care how."
He charged, impaling three warriors on his lance in one brutal sweep. He kicked another clean in half with his hooves, stomping on a skull until it caved in. Spells flew toward him—he quickly moved to the side to avoid them. He was fury incarnate. Each swing of his lance tore apart ten, twenty lives. Screams filled the air, fire and blood and dust rising like stormclouds.
Then—chaos.
Everyone snapped.
Swords clanged. Arrows flew. Magic burned the sky.
A winged woman summoned a tornado of razors, cutting through a swarm of war-cloaked beasts. "I'm going home, dammit!"
A mechanical sentient beast locked jaws with a fire golem. Twin assassins turned invisible and began cleaving through screaming mages. Beams of holy light clashed with void-runes. Blood soaked the rubble, soaking Nero's feet.
And then—Gormund turned toward him. "You look strong. You'll be in the way."
He charged.
The lance, black as starless sky, pointed straight at Nero's chest.
Speaking dark magic trailed behind, a tail of screaming spirits.
He swung—aimed straight at Nero's head.
And Nero didn't move.
He just stared.
Gormund's lance tore toward Nero with killing intent, but the boy vanished before it could land—vanished with such instantaneous velocity the wind screeched in protest. The centaur gasped, hooves digging into shattered stone, looking up—just in time to see Nero above him, suspended in air like a predator poised to fall. A red aura bled from his frame, wild and volatile, boiling around him like smoke from a dying star. In his hands he gripped a long chain of hooked metal—spiked links piercing into his palms, blood threading down his forearms.
And trailing from that chain, overhead, was a massive wrecking ball—a brutal orb of iron thorns and jagged flanges, wreathed in an infernal glow of red and black energy. Nero's eyes were wide—raw, manic, alive. The centaur opened his mouth, but no words came before Nero yanked the chain with both arms, the motion so violent it cracked the air itself. The wrecking ball dove downward like a falling planet, crashing into Gormund's chest with a monstrous, ear-splitting impact that turned the world white for a breathless second.
The ground beneath Gormund caved inward like paper, collapsing into a deep crater rimmed with molten cracks. Chunks of stone exploded outward in every direction, impaling several bystanders and sending others flying. A crimson geyser of blood erupted as the centaur's body folded inward—spine, ribs, limbs all crushed in a single cataclysmic instant. A shockwave followed—not magical, not divine, but raw with kinetic destruction—flattening a wide radius of rubble, knocking over warriors mid-combat. Smoke and dust engulfed the area.
When it cleared, Nero stood alone in the impact's heart, feet planted on what remained of Gormund's ruined torso, the wrecking ball steaming beside him like a murder-god's morning star. He exhaled hard. Still holding the chain. Still bleeding. Still alive. But his eyes were blank, he wasn't thinking, he wasn't strategizing, he was just ready to fight with a reckless motion.
Around him, the chaos slowed for a heartbeat—long enough for warriors to see. And many did. Dozens of them. Beasts, mages, revenants, gunpriests, and otherworldly knights. They saw what he'd done and instinct kicked in—he was a threat.
"That one's dangerous," growled a plated warrior whose back twitched with biomechanical wings. "Take him now. Before he picks us off next."
"We form a pact!" barked a silver-robed priestess, her eyes glowing green and her arms etched in shifting celestial glyphs. "He cannot stand against all of us! We're making it home! To our families! To our pets! To our lives! We stick together and pick the strong ones out first, we'll win!"
"Got it!"
They came. Half a dozen first—two women in twisted samurai armor that shimmered with hextech filigree, a masked monk levitating inches from the ground, a brute wielding dual cleavers crackling with volcanic heat, and a lean archer with skin like polished wood and a bow of stringless tension.
Each unique.
Each monstrous in their own right. And behind them, the battlefield raged with vicious abandon. A lion-headed swordsman tore through a wall of scaled serpent-warriors.
"I swore to never kill again! But if I wanna make it back to my shop, I'll break my vow only for this. I put everything I had into it!"
A spire of bone erupted from a lich's staff, impaling three screaming gladiators. Winged shadows clashed midair, steel crashing on steel, as magical artillery exploded in the distance. Screams and war chants intertwined into one vast, orchestral slaughter.
Back to where Nero was, where the teaming combatants plotted against him, Nero didn't hesitate. He was already moving.
He threw himself forward, dragging the chain behind him. The samurai sisters moved first—blades drawn, one slashing horizontally, the other sweeping low in a reverse spin. Nero vaulted over the first, twisting mid-air, then wrapped the chain around the second's blade as she swung. The spikes bit into the steel, halting the strike, and before she could react, he swung her sister's airborne body into her with the wrecking ball's trailing weight—crushing them together in a burst of clattering armor and blood. He didn't land—he redirected, kicking off the collapsing sisters into a somersault that brought him face-to-face with the monk.
The monk struck first—palms open, striking with precise, rapid-force bursts, aimed at nerve points. Nero weaved, every limb a spring-coil, ducking under an elbow, sidestepping a heel-kick, then slammed his shoulder into the monk's chest, breaking his stance. He wound the chain around the monk's arms, locked it, then yanked down violently. The monk's body snapped to the earth, his face crushing into the ground with a wet crunch.
A war cry behind him. The brute lunged—cleavers swinging in alternating arcs. Nero ducked the first, then dropped into a low sweep kick that brought the brute's balance to ruin. Before the second cleaver landed, Nero grabbed the brute's foot, twisted, and drove his own knee into the man's gut hard enough to rupture organs. He spun once, twice, then hurled the man bodily into the approaching archer—who'd just notched an arrow. The collision was thunderous. Bones snapped. Nero surged forward, hurling the wrecking ball in a whip-crack maneuver, smashing into both of them mid-fall, reducing them to blood-slick rubble.
The priestess was last. She began chanting—her glyphs flaring open into an orbital formation. A beam of white fire lanced toward him, but Nero charged through it, skin blistering, even using his wrecking ball to shield himself.
He closed the gap with a spinning leap, driving his fist into her face mid-incantation. She reeled. He seized her by the robe, drove his knee into her ribs, then hooked the wrecking ball under her with a single-handed spin—launched her upward, then yanked her down again. She landed in a heap of cracked limbs and scattered teeth.
Nero stood there. Breathing hard. Clothes burnt and torn. Blood on his face. Not all of it his.
And he didn't stop. He couldn't.
He turned his head fast. There were others coming—many more. He dragged the chain behind him, already walking forward, the wrecking ball trailing like a leash to his rage. Around him, the battle continued—screams, magic, violence without end.
All around the battle's twisted arena, the deathmatch surged with unspeakable chaos. A mechanical juggernaut, plated in scorched bronze and powered by a core pulsing blue, raised an arm-cannon and unleashed a salvo of firebursts at a 15 foot white and black hydra-wolf—six heads screeching as each blast detonated scale and sinew. "I'll rip you apart, freak!" it roared.
From the side, a robed beast-tamer, his arms wrapped in serpent skins, barked orders to a skeletal boar the size of a siege-engine. "NOW, crush them beneath your tusks!" he shouted. The boar charged, trampling a cyber-knight mid-sprint. A gunslinger in a cloak stitched from enemy banners dropped from above, landing on one knee, firing twin pistols wreathed in lightning, shouting, "Come on, you damned cowards! We're all corpses anyway!"
Steel clashed with fang and fire. A four-armed gladiator wrestled a giant mantis beast, blood spitting from his mouth as its claws shredded his shoulder. "Get off me!" he bellowed, slamming his helmet into the creature's eye. Somewhere distant, a colossal clockwork abomination fired a net of plasma-chains, catching three warpriests mid-jump and disintegrating them into ash.
Off to the side, a woman with long yellow hair and a red dress, softly plunged a dagger into herself, saying, "I cannot dare take a life.."
Near Nero, laughter echoed in the air. A swordmage levitated above the fray, eyes glowing gold. "I have seen the end," she whispered, casting a blade-storm downward. "And it wears your face."
And Nero—he did not pause.
He spun in, chain gripped like a fever dream, dragging the wrecking ball in a full-body spiral, shredding through a gang of ambushers as limbs split, faces caved in, and red rain soaked the ruins. He was a cyclone of iron and flesh, dashing forward through their remnants with cold, forward hunger. Nothing stopped him—until he did. Until he saw them. His family—laid on the bloodied stone ahead, just like that day. His wife's hand limp.
He froze, breath hitching. Then the scent hit him—sweet like poison. Illusion. The image melted away, and from its dissolving seams came an old woman dressed in black burial robes, hair messy and grey, face carved with serene wrinkles, a smile frozen across her lips like a prayer never stopped.
From her sleeve, a blade slipped free, gleaming dark, and lashed toward him like a whisper of death. Nero dodged just in time, air parting at the kiss of the edge. She drew back, eyes glimmering. "You're faster than your fear, boy," she said with a smile. "That makes you interesting. Your eyes are full. No thoughts are running through that mind of yours. You can't win if you close your mind to reality."
Nero didn't answer. He launched forward with the chain slack, letting the wrecking ball roll behind like a hidden fang. She stepped forward with inhuman grace, slashing—each cut dragging spiritual resonance, as the bodies of the recently dead around them jerked to life, bloodless and cursed, and lunged at Nero. He vaulted over one, crushed its head under his boot mid-air, and yanked the chain tight—dragging the wrecking ball low along the ground, superheating it in a skidding flash, then whipping it upward like a molten guillotine.
The heat ignited two corpses. The old woman split into three illusions, no—mirages of movement—as her blades danced. One reformed inside a corpse's torso, which exploded with cursed breath as she swung again. A shallow slice caught Nero's cheek—black blood dripping instantly from his eyes and nose, his vision searing red.
Blind. He roared and planted his heel down, wrapping the chain around his arm in a flash, spinning it tighter and tighter behind him, winding his own body into a weapon. The old woman, named Bogra, rushed in—fast, too fast—and lunged with a triple blade throw.
But Nero released. The wrecking ball fired like a war-spear, dead straight into her ribs. She gasped, stumbling, she couldn't believe she wasn't fast enough to react, but she recovered fast—summoning a jagged curse sword midair, hurling it like a dagger. It struck Nero's thigh. Pain detonated. He dropped, caught the chain, and jerked it back—slamming the ball in a reverse whiplash into the small of her back with bone-cracking violence.
Bogra screamed, blades exploding from the corpses again, their motions fluid, spiraling like hellish puppets. Nero kicked the chain under them, stepped back—then flung it from under his foot. The ball ripped through three of the dead, then he dragged it in like a drawblade, the speed of the recoil heating the wrecking ball into orange fury. He surged forward, jumped, caught the chain mid-drag, and smashed it down toward her head. She parried, but the sheer weight dropped her to a knee.
Her sword shattered. "You've got power," she hissed, coughing blood. "But you've got no control. You're a storm without shape—"
FWIP!
Nero glitched away from her and into the air in speed, he didn't listen to her.
He threw the ball high—spinning it in a horizontal orbit, tight to his waist, iron screaming through air until it was a near-invisible ring. The heat alone scorched the stone beneath his feet, and he pulled the chain taut. Bogra stepped in—swinging her cursed remnant sword—but the moment she did, the spinning disc of death snapped closed like a razor trap, slamming into her midsection with a sound like thunder striking meat. Her body flung sideways, crashing through a slab of broken debris.
Nero didn't stop. He gritted his teeth, let the dizziness take him, and spun once more—his whole frame locked in a grinding whirlwind. The ball grew in heat and speed, and with a final stomp, he let it fly like a shot comet.
It pierced her mid-sprint, crushing her legs, slamming her into the wall hard enough to fold her body backward. She screamed, pinned, and Nero staggered to her. He lifted the ball with both hands, hissed blood from his lungs, and brought it down. Again. And again. Until her skull broke like wet porcelain and her body was mangled, twitching, still smiling.
He stood over her, panting, soaked in gore, barely standing. His thigh burned, his arms shook, his eyes stung red. Around him, more warriors were gathering. They saw the death. They wanted their turn.
Nero looked up.
He couldn't stop.
The carnage did not relent. The arena—a broken cathedral of fire and steel—was soaked in blood and betrayal. Warriors, monsters, and machines tore through one another with desperation chiseled into their eyes, each swing of blade and cleave of claw a refusal to be forgotten in the wreckage.
A man made of molten iron screamed as a pack of blade-hounds tore him apart; the beasts were silenced moments later by a spectral knight who whispered a prayer as he plunged a lance into their skulls.
That knight, too, fell, gurgling on his own tongue as a shrieking insectoid woman drove a spike through his eye. None were safe. A mechanical titan with arms like cannon-barrels crushed three berserkers with a spinning barrage of explosive shots before a glassy-eyed mage stabbed a thin, black dagger into its core. The titan fell forward, crushing the mage to pulp.
"Please—! I don't want to—" a woman sobbed, soaked in the blood of the eight she had just slaughtered. Her plea was answered by silence—and the swing of a rusted flail that ended her words with a sickening crunch. Another warrior screamed a dead lover's name as he plunged himself into a foe wrapped in flame. Two serpentine assassins slithered around a fallen god's bones, one betraying the other mid-sprint with a poison kiss to the throat. Metal clashed with bone, with flesh, with nothing at all. Smoke billowed up in gory towers. Limbs flung across the battlefield like discarded prayers. And still, the dying screamed.
Time meant nothing. Only the killing. Hours passed in a haze of butchery.
….
And then, there were five.
The sky ignited with divine color—silver rains falling like strands of fate—and a voice echoed from beyond the stars, luminous and haunting, broken and beautiful.
"Well done," came the goddess's words, trembling yet resonant, a divine weep stitched with steel. "Only five remain."
She spoke each of their names, and with every utterance, the world paused for a breath, pulling back the veil of war to reveal the final survivors.
"Nero. Class: Soulbound Ravager. Wrecking Chain Warrior, Blood-Bonded Vanguard."
He lay on the cracked stone, blood soaking his shirtless chest, his fingers twitching as if trying to hold onto the chain of his weapon. His breathing was ragged, every breath a growl of survival, his mouth smeared red. His wrecking ball, scorched and cracked with use, rested beside him, still hot. 554 kills. His smirk was faint, but alive. "Still not enough…" he muttered, eyes narrowing at the distant sky. "But I was fast enough.."
'I won again..'
"Artemis. Celestial Automaton / Alchemical War-Priest Class: Divine Bladeframe. Synthetic Paladin / Grimoire Knight."
She knelt, golden and radiant even in ruin, in the middle of a handmade graveyard—shallow holes dug with her own hands for the fallen she had deemed worthy. Her mechanical face held no expression, yet her eyes… they shimmered with something deeply human. Her golden wings drooped with exhaustion, the red gem in her forehead pulsing dimly. Her blade burned silently at her side, flames licking it with reverent grief. 3 kills. "I will remember their names," she whispered, her voice laced with both steel and sorrow.
She was a shaped sentient robotic humanoid with the body of a female, but it was clearly mechanical. It looked human, she was all gold colored, gold skin and red eyes and long golden hair, and golden wings on her back, and a red gem in the middle of her forehead holding a Golden blade with red runes on it with gold mixed with red flame manipulation.
"Terra. Blood Mage / Reaver. Class: Blood Reaver, Hybrid Blood Mage / Executioner."
Terra stood still, robes bloodstained and soul ablaze. Her expression remained unreadable, but the light behind her amber eyes had shifted—deeper, more burdened. Her crimson runic glyphs glowed:
ᚠᚱᚨ (fra - "truth") under her left eye,
ᛃᚨᚷᚨᚱ (jagar - "hunter") under her right,
ᛉ (algiz - "protection") in the middle of her forehead.
She clutched her red blood scythe, the weapon humming like a haunted hymn. 520 kills. She finished a soft prayer. "Godfrey, you didn't answer. I'll find out why myself. Crazy as hell you're being silent to me right now."
Terra embodied an otherworldly presence that had felt carved from myth and sanctified by ancient flame. Her appearance had shimmered with a surreal clarity, as though she had stepped from the pages of a sacred tome scrawled in blood and light. Her skin, pale as alabaster, and she had crimson glyphs tattoos that had curled and branched like living scripture—symbols of power, protection, and perhaps a curse unspoken. The glyph tattoos were in the middle of her forehead, under her left eye, and right eye (detail the runic glyph tattoos in runic format)
Her eyes, wide and amber-hued, had held the depth of burning embers—soft in their glow, but endless in their quiet intensity. They had not merely looked; they had *searched*, as if unearthing truth buried beneath flesh and spirit. Her expression had rarely shifted, but its stillness had whispered volumes—of patience, of sorrow, and of a will bound by ancient design.
Terra's silver-white hair had fallen in smooth, silken strands, parted neatly and drawn back into a thick braid that rested over her shoulder like a rope of moonlight. Two great horns had curled from her temples, sweeping back in elegant arcs etched with faint grooves and runes. Their ashen hue had contrasted with the vivid red that stained her markings, and their presence had made her seem both sanctified and monstrous—a creature of divine contradiction.
She had worn a robe of pale ivory, its surface etched with delicate gray embroidery that mimicked both holy sigils and sharp, arcane patterns. The sleeves had flowed like soft banners with every movement, while a crimson cord had bound her garment across the chest, fastened in an ornamental knot that hinted at ceremonial origin. Her collar had stood high and regal, stiff with fine stitching, encasing her throat like a vow never broken.
Her right hand had been stained in radiant red, glowing from fingertip to forearm with symbols that spiraled and twisted like veins of molten power. The glow had not flickered—it had burned, steady and alive, as if her body had been a vessel for something far greater than herself. From her palm, crimson threads of energy had danced into the air, writhing like serpents of light.
Gripped in her hand had been a massive scythe—its obsidian-black shaft carved with jagged runes, and its blade a brilliant arc of bloodred metal. The weapon had looked forged from agony and fervor alike, its edge serrated like the teeth of some ancient beast. The scythe had not served her—it had *obeyed* her, resonating with her very breath, humming with the resonance of judgment.
"Streng. Berserker / Relic Beast Class: Primal Juggernaut."
The muscular standing humanoid bear-man crouched over a broken corpse, his muzzle wet with flesh. He growled as he tore muscle from bone, unashamed. Glowing red eyes gleamed in the firelight. Grey fur matted with the blood of hundreds, each scar etched deeper into his soul. 720 kills. "They taste desperate," he said with a grin, licking his fangs. "Just like hope."
"Cain. Lightning Knight / Execution Hammer Class: Storm Sentinel (Lightning Tank / Disabler)."
He stood alone on a hill of ash and corpses, his warhammer resting against one shoulder like a monument to extinction. His white hair flared in the wind, his corrupted face frozen in that skeletal, grinning snarl. His red eye pulsed like a heartbeat inside a void. The hammer crackled with red and black lightning. 594 kills. He said nothing. He didn't need to. The air around him was dead.
Cain's face had been a haunting fusion of humanity and horror. His snow-white hair had fallen in rough, tousled layers, casting jagged shadows over a visage split between flesh and malevolence. The right side of his face had retained a ghostly pallor, smooth and deceptively serene, while the left had been consumed by dark, biomechanical corruption—blackened skin veined with glowing crimson, as though infernal circuitry pulsed beneath the surface. One eye had glowed a fierce, hellish red, locked in a permanent glare, while his mouth had stretched into a skeletal grin of exposed fangs, jagged and metallic, like a predator forged in torment.
His clothing had been a chaotic armor of survival and war. A torn, ash-gray cloak had draped from his shoulders, fastened by rough leather straps and chains that clinked with every movement. His torso had been wrapped in a patchwork of tactical belts, pouches, and reinforced cloth, stained with scorch marks and dried blood. Intricate red glyphs were woven into the very fabric he wore as if branded by some forgotten rite. Every buckle, strap, and layer had served both function and intimidation, a walking arsenal crafted from ruin.
In his hands, he had wielded a colossal warhammer—an unholy relic of raw destruction. The weapon had been forged from blackened steel, etched with infernal carvings that blazed red with living energy. Its head had been massive and squared, adorned with circular runes that pulsed like a heartbeat, each thud resonating with caged fury. Crimson tendrils of energy had coiled around the handle and head, writhing like serpents drawn to blood. It had not been a tool—it had been a sentence, a weapon that demanded devastation.
Then came her. The goddess.
Her name was Mirethel, and she had descended like a tear carved from moonlight—wreathed in silken robes of lavender and pearl, her skin luminous with divine sorrow. Silver patterns floated across her body like constellations lost to time. Her hair—long, coiled ivory strands threaded with strands of sunfire—flowed around her weightlessly. Her eyes, vast and oceanic, shimmered with stars, and her voice wept even in silence. Her crown was a broken diadem of roots and thorns. Her fingers bled golden ichor as they hovered over her heart.
"I am Mirethel," she said, voice like lullabies torn by grief. "The Weeping Goddess. The All Mother. I govern fate… not with command, but with mourning. I am the architect of the Hanging Tree… where my children were slain. They are now Kalhalla's marrow, its heartbeat, its curse. They must die. You must kill them."
Nero raised his head, glaring. "That's it? That's all we get? I want a match with you, I want to fight. You forced everyone to kill each other just to survive."
Mirethel said to him, "Yet, you slaughtered thousands in your old world. Didn't you? You have no one to go back to. And here..you only have war to return to. That's all that waits, it welcomes you."
"Shut up…as soon as your feet hit the ground..it's over.."
'The All Mother…a mother of a set of gods who are her children. She had them executed and somehow they're alive again and escaped into a world , and want us to hunt them down. I could've let myself be taken down earlier, but I can't lose. I can't lose anything. No matter what it is. Though I took away from others back there, I can't allow myself to lose after I spent two years trying to outrun failure itself. Fucking crazy. And here I am with a talking bear, a girl with white horns, a humanoid robot, and a brooding guy with half a face. How strong are they compared to me if they were able to survive?'
Artemis stepped forward, mechanical grace interrupted by subtle words to Mirethel. "Who were your children? What did they become?"
Streng laughed a low, growling laugh. "Why mourn if you want 'em dead?"
Cain said nothing, his warhammer humming. He just watched.
But Mirethel gave no answer. Her eyes closed. She would give no stories.
Terra stepped close to Nero, her voice low, laced with dry sarcasm and real fury. "You want to help me get real answers from this pretty bitch?" Her amber eyes didn't waver. "You look strong."
Nero sat up fully, spitting blood and saying. "Say the word then.. I hate cryptic types. Say the whole truth or get smacked. She's getting on my nerves anyway, floating up there like she owns me."
Terra didn't wait. "I hate being trapped. No matter what the chain is. Goddess, war, fate—screw all of it. I'm getting real answers. She won't kill us, she needs us. She went through all this dumb trouble to have us as her god slayers."
Nero nodded, and with one swift, blood-soaked movement, he charged.
Terra gasped, she didn't think he would be so on board with this without hesitation, not thinking he would make the first move.
The wrecking ball spun into Mirethel's face with devastating force, the impact sounding like thunder in reverse. Her glowing body flung backward—and Terra launched beneath her, leaping like a blade thrown by vengeance. Her scythe pierced up through the goddess's back, twisting through glowing ribs and divine organs.
"Yo, half face guy with the hammer! Hit her or something!"
Cain didn't flinch—he slammed his warhammer into her side with such magnitude it cracked the ground beneath them, red and black lightning igniting the heavens. Mirethel shrieked in agony, golden blood gushing.
Streng was next, sprinting on all fours before leaping into the air like a demon bear-star, his claws digging into her throat and ripping. "You ain't divine. You're meat."
Artemis landed softly beside her, blade in hand. "For every voice silenced by your riddles," she said quietly. "May this end it." Her golden blade, licked by red and gold flame, cleaved down in a single, perfect stroke. "She deserves this. She doomed the others for her own sake."
Mirethel crashed into the ground—splayed, broken, her glowing body bloodied and brutalized. Yet her eyes, wide and filled with stars, still wept.
Nero stood over her, breath ragged. Terra beside him. Cain, Artemis, Streng—all circling like the judgment she had once delivered.
And still, the goddess wept.